


Breaking Point

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Kinky Holmescest [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Buckingham Palace, Dom!Mycroft, Dom/sub, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fluff, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Miscommunication, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, Possessive Behavior, holmescest, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: What if Mycroft really did lose it during that famous scene in Buckingham Palace? AU.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Kinky Holmescest [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758976
Comments: 33
Kudos: 171





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts), [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/gifts).



> Damn, I've been wanting to write this all month (July), but there's an exam :( Boards. The exam itself is two days from now, can't wait for it to be over and to move on with life (and the usual fanfic writing). 
> 
> I should explain a bit about this universe. Everyone is born a Dom or sub, and everyone needs to exercise these tendencies every now and then. I wasn't going to post it until all three chapters were written, but LadyGlinda encouraged me to put it up (the first bit at least) :D so here we are! 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Of course, anything familiar is taken from Ariane DeVere's awesome transcripts!

“Time to move on, then.” 

Sherlock looks at the proffered set of clothes and shoes with mild disinterest. 

This is all so boring. Why did Mycroft even bother with dragging him all the way here? No doubt there is a case involving an indiscreet member of the Royal Family, and he really couldn’t give a toss. Another silly scandalous event to make hush-hush. He had better things to do – like clipping the toenails of his cadavers and finding lost kittens for little old ladies. 

“We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation.” 

His brother stands straighter, fixing his stern blue eyes directly at him. The tiniest of shivers travel down Sherlock’s spine. Fuck. That tone… Just last month, Mycroft had been employing it in a much more mutually satisfying way. The voice he doms Sherlock with in private. Looking very much like the powerful man he is in his beautifully tailored suit. Not that Sherlock cared about such power. 

Nevertheless, it’s still (infuriatingly) hot. 

“Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

His body twitches. Just a little. Sherlock tempers the urge to obey down. They are in public. No one knows he is a submissive in a world where Dominants run the show. Even his driver’s licence bears a ‘D’ for Dominant. Mycroft had helped him acquire it the year he had presented. John doesn’t know. Neither do his parents. Gods. He had been devastated – and his brother had found him unconscious in a dilapidated alleyway with a needle stuck in his arm the day he had figured out his true identity. Knowing that his body (transport) will crave the firm hand of a Dominant for the rest of his life. That he would need to cede control to another every now and then. 

And, he couldn’t stand people to begin with!

“What for?” Sherlock shrugs carelessly. 

“Your client.” 

He stands up. Sherlock despises these cloak and dagger games that the wealthy and powerful like to play. And Mycroft knows it. “And my client is?”

Another man walks in. “Illustrious…” 

Sherlock turns to look at the equerry. A man who tended to the day-to-day needs of the royalty. And enjoys it. Loving being at the beck and call of people who were fortuitous enough to be born from the right uteri. The sod. He couldn’t imagine living a duller life. A sub – Sherlock could see. An owned one, judging by the discreet wristlet the man wears. Maybe he gets off on it, serving all these privileged people he could never be. 

“In the extreme.” The equerry finishes. 

John stands up at this point. Clearly, his flatmate’s contempt for the Royalty only stretches so far. So easily impressed...

The equerry continues. “And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous.” The man looks at his brother, and dares to speak his name. “Mycroft!”

His brother actually smiles at the fool! “Harry.” Mycroft says with familiarity, reaching over to shake the sub’s hand. “May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?”

“Full-time occupation, I imagine.” 

Sherlock can’t hide the scowl on his face. His brother ignores him (which bothers him the most) as the equerry turns to John. “And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” 

“Hello, yes.” John beams as they shake hands. All too happy that he is a known entity amongst the Royal household staff. 

“My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog.” The equerry remarks, stroking John’s ego just right – evidenced by that smug throat clearance that John emits followed by a ‘Thank you!’.

The equerry walks closer to Sherlock. He resists the urge to take a step back. “And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs.”

“I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.” 

Sherlock’s limited patience is waning. 

Putting up with all this… ugh. 

He’s not entitled to do any of this for Mycroft. These cases. Even if this is one that Mycroft actually needs assistance on. He’s not even Mycroft’s sub. If his brother thinks he could just dom him into taking his cases… fuck that. They have an arrangement in  _ private _ that had been borne out of Sherlock’s desperation. Which had worked fine for well over a decade, until… more recently. At least on his end. And it’s fucking complicated. A mess. Now, Sherlock only asks for a session when he really needs it in order to protect an organ he had thought didn’t exist within him. 

Which is actually now – but now is clearly not a good time. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steel himself for an exit. He needs to get out of here before he actually manages to do something irreparably stupid.

Walking past John in the most nonchalant and brusque way he could manage – forcing the shorter man to step aside – he states in the haughtiest manner he could manage. “Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. But both ends is too much work.” 

He then looks pointedly at the equerry. “Good morning.” 

Turning to walk away, he suddenly feels resistance. 

A foot. Stepping on his sheet. 

Mycroft. Fuck. How dare he!?! He had almost fallen over! Sherlock grabs at the trailing edge before he could be completely disrobed in front of everyone. 

The blues of Mycroft’s eyes are incensed. “This is a matter of national importance. Grow up.” 

Bastard. Sherlock accidentally manages to meet Mycroft’s gaze, and suddenly he isn’t sure why his brother is pissed off at him. It’s not simply because Sherlock is embarrassing him in public  _ again… _ That’s par for the course. Buckingham-fucking-Palace or not. 

It’s what Sherlock does to make sure that no one suspects that he is a submissive, period. It’s his way of exerting the Dominance he doesn’t quite have. He’s quite a different creature in private as his brother would know. 

Mycroft’s jaw twitches, as if trying to contain whatever it is he wants to say to Sherlock. 

_ Say what it is you want to say then, brother dear. _

Instead, Sherlock snaps. “Get off my sheet!”

“Or what?” His brother’s syllables as smooth and calm they sound to the ear betray a perturbed equilibrium that only Sherlock could pick up. 

“Or I will just walk away.” Sherlock musters all the dignity he could. Every single shred of it. 

“I will let you.” Mycroft’s tone is choppier now.

_ No you won’t. _

It’s a bluff. Sherlock realizes. This isn’t Mycroft the ‘minor government official’ speaking to him at this moment. This is the Dominant. A Dominant who hasn’t dominated anyone in weeks. Just as Sherlock is a sub who hasn’t subbed for anyone well since the last time Mycroft had partaken. Doms like subs get antsy (to a lesser degree) if they don’t dom anyone for a certain period of time, and damn – is Sherlock the only sub Mycroft dominates these days? In the old days Sherlock had known that there were others. Any sub would die to be under Mycroft’s scrutiny. There are even Doms that would happily sub for him. 

And Good Lord – is Mycroft fucking – jealous? Of an imaginary Dom that Sherlock is not getting off with? Or… good god – does he think that Sherlock is seeking such services from John of all people?!? That would make sense, Sherlock had started withdrawing from his brother sometime around the time he had moved into Baker Street. 

Now that ridiculous little warehouse stunt from a while ago makes a little bit more sense...

“Boys, please. Not here.” John interrupts Sherlock’s thoughts. 

Ah, now John is all Mr. Propriety and Decorum, but Sherlock doesn’t care. It is all so artificial. And whether John likes it or not, Sherlock senses that a scene devastating his delicate English sensibilities is looming ahead. 

Mycroft’s jealousy isn’t his problem though. Sherlock thinks bitterly. This is the man who told him that sentiment is for fools, or something along those lines over the years. And it’s always the Dominant who asks for exclusivity, not the sub. Mycroft could have asked ages ago to change the terms of their arrangement. Fuck. Sherlock just wants to go back home. And mope in bed or the couch. 

Whatevs. 

He doesn’t have to put up with this… nonsense. 

“Who. Is. My. Client?!?” Sherlock hisses, trying to look for an out. He doesn’t give a fuck who this client is, but it seems like a safe way to channel his emotions. 

“Take a look at where you are standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God’s sake…” 

Mycroft is incandescent with rage. Wrath. It’s… amazing. Spectacular. A sight to remember. Seeing the fury blaze in his normally cool blue irises. His fingers are flexing and extending – barely perceptible to the naked eye. These everyday goldfish might just think Mycroft is just slightly displeased, but Sherlock knows better. 

_ What are you so worked up about, Mycroft? _

And oh! 

Oh. Sherlock sees Mycroft try to get a hold of himself by glancing at the equerry who is totally oblivious about the magnitude of what is really going on in front of him. And then – he understands what this is really about. His brother is hurt that Sherlock has been staying away for the past months, only asking for the bare minimum. Sherlock had done so to protect himself. And… Mycroft doesn’t know why? The man who prides himself on knowing well… everything? And then, Sherlock sees the moment where Mycroft actually snaps – and – 

“Lock –”

His pet name. Oh god. He didn’t budget for this! Is Mycroft really going to do this? Out them both in public like this? Well – the illustrious public, anyways – plus John. It isn’t illegal – to dom a sibling who had presented as a sub. The presentations typically happened in late adolescence or early adulthood. 

Actually – now that he thinks about it – there is another option, and it’s for him to walk away (or rather run(!)) without looking back like – now. Leave Mycroft hanging while he will have to vehemently deny his true nature to everyone till he draws his last dying breath on this planet.

Oh. And find a new discreet Dom. If people thought he was badly behaved now, wait until they see the menace he becomes when he hasn’t visited subspace in a few months. 

Fuck. 

“I want you across my lap. Now.” 

Sherlock can feel all the air being sucked out of the atmosphere as his brother pats his thigh, indicating to him where Mycroft would like him. 

It’s like a black hole collapsing. A supernova exploding. The world-no-universe being obliterated and made anew. A ‘this could be dangerous’. Or rather ‘this is fucking dangerous’. Mycroft has more to lose than Sherlock does. The sane thing to do would be to leave, but he finds that he can’t. No. Not with that tone. A combination of his cool dominance, tinged with a bit of possessiveness(?). Not with so much history looming between them. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock – 

He meets his brother’s eyes again. The blazes in them seem to soften somewhat – and it is that which drives Sherlock to finally move. Not to leave, but to go toward his brother – feeling rather like one of two stars hopelessly entangled in each other’s gravitational orbits. A dysfunctional binary system that will inevitably culminate in a big bang. 

His brother sits down on the empty sofa, and Sherlock obediently goes and drapes himself over Mycroft’s fine trousers – letting the sheet slide completely off his person as he does so. Making sure that his thighs are spread – if he’s going to be made a spectacle of, he might as well do everything properly. Present his assets the way Mycroft had taught him to. He could hear a gasp – John, probably – but he’s beyond caring, enjoying the feel of Mycroft’s merino against his bare skin. He sighs when Mycroft’s hand ruffles his curls and leans into Mycroft’s affectionate touch. He almost sobs at how good it feels. His brother’s other hand runs along the bumps of his vertebrae before cupping one of his buttocks. 

“You don’t have to count.” His brother states, loud enough for everyone to hear – and Sherlock could barely get it together when the first bare-handed  _ smack _ hits his arse; the sound of flesh against flesh ringing in his ears. 

He’s not going to lie – but they hurt. Mycroft has a lot of  _ energy _ and god forbid  _ emotion  _ to work off (and when his brother is in the right mind, he’s going to be incredibly appalled, for he believes in not disciplining in anger or in a fit of irrationality). As the smacks rain skillfully down, never in the same spot, and never in the same rhythm for Sherlock to anticipate – he finds himself tearing up – but yet – everything goes straight to his stiffening masochistic cock – and he just wants more – to the point where he’s thrusting his arse rather wantonly against Mycroft’s palm while simultaneously letting his achingly hard prick rub against his brother’s trousers. 

God. How he needs this. He’s been depriving himself (and Mycroft) of this. And in the middle, he could hear someone give a wolf whistle and remark that Sherlock knows how to take a spanking – reminding him once again that they aren’t alone. 

How fucking crude… 

“You nasty boy.” Mycroft says quietly, for Sherlock’s ears only, “Getting off on this, hm? Getting spanked in public?”

Sherlock’s cock only twitches in further interest. “Yes… Mycroft.” He sobs. He refuses to call Mycroft ‘sir’, it always seemed so sterile to him. Master though – he would. “Please…” 

“You’ve been rather impertinent today, Lock. I really shouldn’t let you cum –”

His brother stops in his tracks – breaking whatever fantastical spell that had been cast upon the two of them – and Sherlock could see why. A stylish little old lady – that looks somewhat familiar to Sherlock – had entered the room. Mycroft hastily leans over to grab the bed sheet, and drape it over Sherlock’s rather naked body – as if just realizing that Sherlock is utterly starkers. 

“Harry. I thought you were getting the little matter of the photographs sorted, not hosting a morning tea of debauchery! And, Mycroft – how lovely to see you, and your charming submissive!” 

Sherlock could literally feel the heat radiating from Mycroft’s cheeks. 

“Your Majesty – I really must apologize for my regrettable loss in control –” 

Oh. It’s the Queen! They have a Queen – not a King! Sherlock fights the urge to giggle. Of course, the day Mycroft loses it, the Queen is there to see it. Along with the sight of his naked and reddened bottom. 

Of which he’s been told is a wondrous view.

And wait… the Queen had called him Mycroft’s submissive – even though Sherlock isn’t wearing a single token of his ownership?!? No collar, wristlet or some other adornment. An owned sub wouldn’t be caught dead without an obvious token, considering how thirsty and how annoyingly persistent doms without subs could be. He’s certain that she’s caught an eyeful of him in his complete naked glory. Is she blind? Or does she know something that Sherlock does not know? 

“Ah, nonsense! That couch has been the setting of many a memorable spanking. What’s another delightful memory?” If Sherlock isn’t wrong, she seems delighted by Mycroft’s loss of control. Makes big brother more human in her eyes. “Harry, why don’t you take them to one of the private playrooms? Let them get themselves sorted, and perhaps, the photographs can be sorted after over an actual tea.”

“Yes, ma’am – right away.” The equerry inclines his head politely – having the decency to look rather chastised in front of his employer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having the Queen show up was inspired by this [gif](http://img0.joyreactor.com/pics/post/sherlock-gif-god-save-the-queen-513851.gif)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of pissplay. Some painplay.

Mycroft oscillates on the thick Persian rug in the lavish playroom, furnished with tasteful colours of purple and cream for the everyday use of the Royal Family. 

In their adulthood, Sherlock had always found his brother hard to read, and now, it is no different. Mycroft’s back is slightly hunched, and if big brother hadn’t quit smoking again, Sherlock is sure he would have lit one up regardless of his opulent surroundings judging by the minute twitching of his fingers. 

When big brother finally speaks, there is something fragile in his tone. 

Tentative. 

“Why did you not walk away?” 

The million dollar question! Sherlock is still asking himself the same. If he had walked (or ran!) starkers out of Buckingham, he would still be a Dominant in the eyes of the public. Of course, Mycroft would have looked a bit silly, but that wasn’t new. With all of his intellect, Sherlock is positive Mycroft could craft an excuse for his faux pas. Yet – he had never dreamed he would have been outed like that! 

It’s so absurd that he can’t even be mad! 

Or rather, he’s still in shock! And his bum still stings (deliciously) from Mycroft’s handiwork; a reminder that whatever just happened out there isn’t a figment of his wild imagination.

Hm… what did Mycroft say earlier? At the very heart of the British nation? In front of the Queen! Well… that was certainly one way to come out… 

“When a Dominant gives an order, do they expect a sub to disobey?” Sherlock replies with a flippant question, feeling rather irritated that they are going to examine his behaviour rather than Mycroft’s uncustomary loss of control which had landed them here in the first place. 

“You…” The words are hoarse. Sherlock doesn’t miss the surprise in Mycroft’s words as he attempts to deduce Sherlock’s behaviour. “You didn’t want me to look ridiculous? As a Dominant? Even though you have clearly no problem embarrassing me over every other matter in this universe? Lock...” 

When Mycroft puts things this way, it’s clear to Sherlock why he had done what he had done. It was one thing to disrespect his ‘minor government official’ of a brother, but when confronted with _his_ Dominant… Sherlock knows it’s a hopeless cause. He could have never refused him. Even if it cost him his legal freedoms as a Dominant. 

Sentiment is never an advantage. He thinks bitterly.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief when his brother crosses the few metres that separate them and kneels at his feet. 

“I am so sorry.” There is shame in Mycroft’s voice. “I managed to ruin everything that you’ve worked for, brother mine. I did everything that you’ve ever despised in a Dominant in a few short minutes.” A brief spasm of anguish seems to ripple across his brother’s features. “I understand, little brother, if you never want anything to do with me again.”

“But… why?” Sherlock finds himself asking. “Why were you so insistent on making me stay?” 

“Why?” Mycroft stands up. He laughs, but it’s self-deprecating. “Why indeed! It’s the same reason why you couldn’t walk away. So, Sherlock –” His brother grows serious again, fixing him with an intense look. “Why didn’t you walk away?”

“I… I couldn’t.” Sherlock hangs his head. “It’s… different. I could walk away from my brother – the bloody annoying British government…” 

There is the faintest ghost of a smile on Mycroft’s face at that. 

“But… not _my_ Dominant.” Sherlock chooses his words carefully. “And at that moment, the two beings intersected. It’s special. When we are Dom and sub. Sacred. I couldn’t…”

“ _Your_ Dominant.” Mycroft breathes audibly at that. “Sacred… Maybe once upon a time, but – Lock – you’ve been…” He swallows, looking away. “Distant. You’ve been avoiding me –”

“I had to.” 

So, big brother had been hurt by Sherlock’s retreat. 

“You found someone else.” 

“If I did, Mycroft – why would I have sought you out last month? Out of necessity, mind you. Mrs. Hudson was threatening to throw me out! For putting holes in her walls! I couldn’t stand it, Mycroft. Not being with you. Being with you, as we are.” 

Sherlock tears at his hair in distress, letting the bed sheet hang loosely around his frame, revealing a sliver of his skin to his brother. 

“As we are.” His brother repeats the words slowly, trying to parse the meaning hidden behind them.

Frustrated at his brother’s uncharacteristic slowness, and in consideration of all the bombshells had already gone off today (really, what’s one more, as the Queen had said), Sherlock utters. “Sentiment, Mycroft. I love you, you imbecile.” Sherlock takes a breath. He has never felt more vulnerable in his life. “That’s the crux of the bloody matter. You’ve never seemed to return it. If you cared at all, Mycroft – considering that you’ve blown my cover as a Dominant in such a spectacular manner, you ought to do the proper thing and give me your collar.” Of course, being collared by his brother would give Mycroft a hell of a lot more power (legally) over him, but it was infinitely better than being chased by Doms he couldn’t stand. Wrapping the bed sheet tightly around him once more, Sherlock says somewhat bitterly. “Now tell me I am an idiot and that this is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” He then turns around to leave, feeling the need to go lick his wounds in a quiet corner – not actually wanting to hear his brother say these cruel words. 

A familiar resistance pulls at his sheet. God. He should send Mycroft the bill for the dry-cleaners. Sherlock is rather partial to this set of sheets.

His brother’s words cut him deep. But not in the way he had expected. 

“Lock. Why would I say that you are an idiot? How could you ever think that? That _your_ Dominant doesn’t care for you. Doesn’t love you. That’s not true.” Mycroft stops to draw breath and continues rather shakily. “I just didn’t understand, brother mine – why you started to be so distant. And then you moved in with another Dominant, your Dr. Watson – I thought…” His brother trails off, averting Sherlock’s gaze – unable to finish his sentence. Trying to hide the pain on his face. 

Good god. How could they be both so bad at deducing each other? Sherlock closes the gap between them and wraps his arms around his brother, not caring that the bed sheet is partially falling off his person. Mycroft buries his face readily against Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. Unused to being the one to provide comfort, Sherlock finds himself cautiously allowing his fingers to run through his brother’s thinning hair. Throughout their relationship, it had seemed that it was Sherlock who needed Mycroft more than the other way around, and Sherlock had always resented that in some way, especially in the earlier years – where he had known that Mycroft had dabbled around with other subs. 

“You lied earlier.” Sherlock murmurs after a few minutes. “You wouldn’t have let me walk away.”

“I would have if that’s what you truly wanted, brother.”

“But that’s not what you would have wanted.” 

His brother is silent for a long time before he says stiffly. “What I wanted was irrelevant.”

“Yet… you forced me to decide.” Sherlock whispers. “If you think I resent you for it, I don’t. I just don’t understand why you never said anything.”

“You made your view on Dominants quite clear –”

“Mycroft, I was _nineteen_ when I said all those things. I was distressed. Scared.” Sherlock interjects. 

He had been terrified. So much so that he had overdosed the evening before. And his brother had spent so much time afterwards looking after him, forging him an identity as a Dominant and showing him how to appear as one in public, while teaching him how to be a submissive in private. The whole idea of having Sherlock undermine and bicker with Mycroft in public had actually been Mycroft’s idea actually. 

The problem is that when one plays these roles for too long, it starts becoming real and even hurtful. Sherlock realizes now. 

At the beginning, Sherlock had loathed the whole idea, and somehow along the years – it had become first-nature for him to insult and rebel against his brother in front of other people. When John had come into his life, he knew that his behaviour had grown exponentially worse. 

Sherlock could feel his eyes grow suspiciously wet. He’s a fool. If Mycroft hadn’t cared about him, he wouldn’t be alive right now. 

“Sh… brother mine…” Mycroft’s hand goes up to brush the moisture off Sherlock’s face in a tender manner. His forehead rests lightly on his. “Everything will be okay.” 

Sherlock watches as Mycroft stands up straight again, his suit looking a bit worse for wear. His hand takes off the tiepin (an umbrella today) and puts it into his suit pocket. He then unknots the tie from his neck and gently takes Sherlock’s left hand. Confused, Sherlock lets Mycroft wrap the tie a few times around his wrist and then he realizes it is meant to be a wristlet (a temporary one) – like the one the equerry had been wearing. 

A symbolic collaring. 

There’s a strange look in Mycroft’s eyes as he does this; a mix of awe, affection and reverence. Mycroft finishes it with a snug knot; it is tight enough for it to be a constant reminder of who Sherlock belongs to now. 

Sherlock smiles at it – feeling something that feels oddly like happiness course through him. His nineteen year-old self would have been terrified or even appalled to have been bound to a Dominant like this, but this is what Sherlock had wanted for a long time. 

“Satisfactory, Lock?” 

Sherlock can only nod, still too stunned and tongue-tied to speak. His brother only smiles knowingly at him, before a hand reaches to cup his cheek – and Mycroft leans forward to brush his lips against his, almost making him gasp at this intimate touch. 

God. He’s never been kissed like this before. On the lips. His brother’s tongue lightly teases at his lips, gently tracing the curves. And all Sherlock could do was simply melt. He is pressed up against Mycroft’s suit – wrinkling it further – but he’s sure big brother is beyond caring. 

All too soon, the kiss is broken, and his brother strokes at Sherlock’s zygomatic arch with a finger. “I don’t think I’ve seen you so speechless before, Lock.” The words are fond with just a bit of a tease. 

“You can’t…” Sherlock begins to say, before he’s kissed again by his brother in a manner that really does confirm that Mycroft had collared him for reasons unrelated to duty. 

God. Why couldn’t they have been doing this sooner? Rather than letting it all explode in public? But he understands why his brother had kept his sentiment to himself; the terms of their arrangement had been that Sherlock was to be the one who initiated everything – all their encounters and he even had a say in what they did, although his brother had always turned him down whenever he had asked for penetrative sex related to his rear end, opting to fuck Sherlock’s thighs instead. Saying things like that he ought to save that for a Dominant he wants to be collared by. And Sherlock had always complained about virginity being an out-of-date concept, and Mycroft would always shake his head and smile (sadly?) at him. God. How the fuck did he only notice this just now?

“Can’t expect me to find words when you’ve given me the world.” Sherlock manages to get out, trying to stop himself from becoming more of a tearstained mess. 

“Lock. I’ve wanted to be your Dom for a long time now.” Mycroft lets his hands trail down Sherlock’s naked torso, causing the bed sheet to finally fall off Sherlock’s person. He presses another kiss against Sherlock’s clavicle. “I just couldn’t risk losing you.” A kiss against his shoulder. “But you were disappearing from my life anyways – I guess my inner Dominant –”

“Fought for me? Staking your claim by spanking me in front of the Queen? Naked?” Sherlock begins to uncontrollably giggle – while the tears that he was barely keeping in started to leak down his cheeks. “You were always the smart one. Ouch!” 

Mycroft had pinched the tender flesh just below his ribcage. “Impertinence shan’t be rewarded.”

“You like me mouthy.” Sherlock smirks, and Mycroft just simply kisses him silent, letting his hands slide down to his abused bum. 

He gasps, when Mycroft squeezes at his buttocks, reigniting the previously stimulated pain receptors – revisiting the pleasure of the earlier spanking. It had hardly been a punishment. Sherlock loves getting spanked too much for it to be. He isn’t a complete pain slut, but he likes it enough. Pleasure with an edge of pain. Nothing could possibly top that – having the Queen (a Dom herself) have a view of the results while Mycroft had hurried (suddenly worried about Sherlock’s dignity) to cover him up. A scene to revisit over and over again in his head. He moans softly against Mycroft’s lips – allowing his hard cock to press firmly against his Domiant’s pelvis.

“What do you want, Lock?” His brother glances meaningfully at the rest of the room, filled with various furnishings, implements and other torments to make any submissive drool over. Especially knowing that there were Princesses and Princes who played in here, and maybe even the Queen herself would discipline her subs here too. 

Yet the only thing Sherlock wants is in front of him. “You know what I want. What I need.” He murmurs as wantonly as he could, letting his breath ghost across Mycroft’s ear – which he knows is a sensitive spot. Mycroft trembles slightly at this – and Sherlock thrills at this. That he can affect Mycroft in equally devastating ways. “Fuck me, Mycroft.” 

“God. Sherlock.” Mycroft gasps. “Go to the bed, kneel on the centre, and let me go get a few things.” 

The bed? Sherlock looks around, until he sees the massive four-poster bed with its velvet drapes and luxurious bedding located centrally in the spacious room. Not to mention all the points of attachment for lovely activities. Perhaps they ought to make this an annual thing. An anniversary thing. The Queen seems fond enough of Mycroft that if he asked, she would allow them to borrow this room whenever they wanted. A Royal Fucking. Sherlock smirks and immediately complies with Mycroft’s order. 

It’s easy enough. Sherlock swings himself onto the king-sized mattress, bouncing a few times on the bed, before crawling his way to the center. He kneels, letting his hands fall to his thighs. Parting his thighs slightly, he exposes his genitalia. Mycroft likes him exposed. He bends his neck slightly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the quilt that covers the bed. 

He breathes slowly, allowing the excitement of the day to dissipate from his person. Finding that calm he associates from being in this position. The splash of yellow on his wrist makes him smile though, he knows his brother will get him (if he’s not already acquired) a proper collar and wristlet – and all the other accoutrements an owned sub needs, but this tie would always have a soft spot in his heart. 

The bed dips. Sherlock doesn’t look up. A hand caresses his cheek and tilts his head up before his lips are met with Mycroft’s again; and it’s so strange – yet wonderful – that adding kissing to their usual acts makes such a big difference. There is a tray next to Mycroft – containing an assortment of toys, lubricant and even a towel. He moans when Mycroft nips at his lip – trying to fight the urge to divest his brother of the rest of his suit. 

The leather tongue of a short riding crop licks down his chest to his navel and he groans “Mycroft!” when the tip of the crop flicks somewhat painfully (but deliciously) against one of his nipples just as Mycroft’s own tongue slips into Sherlock’s temporarily parted lips and sensually ensnares him into a new electrifying type of kiss. 

Fuck. So much distracting stimuli. His brother’s other hand is buried in Sherlock’s curls – guiding their snogging while the tormenting crop is drawing patterns against his skin – letters. 

_I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U._

_Snap!_ The crop nips at his other nipple and Sherlock can’t help but to buck his hips and cause them both to fall heavily against the mattress – causing Mycroft to land upon him. His brother chuckles – not reprimanding Sherlock for his inability to stay still, and proceeds to conquer his mouth again, letting the crop gently caress his sensitive flanks. 

_M-I-N-E._ The tip of the crop spells repeatedly. Sherlock can’t help but to giggle – forcing Mycroft to break their kiss. “What’s so funny?” 

“This is how subs end up with names tattooed or burnt onto their person.” Sherlock bursts into another fit of giggles when his brother starts tickling him. “Mycroft!” 

“I like it when you scream my name, little brother.” Mycroft is now hovering over him, propped up by his forearms. “Although I can’t say I don’t like the idea of having my name written somewhere on your flesh. You are mine now.” Another kiss. “So mine, brother _mine._ ” _Smooch._ “It’s too late to run now. You’ve had your chances. Mm…” Another one. “I am going to make you scream.” The tantalizing silk in his brother’s tones bodes promise, sending shivers down Sherlock’s nerves. 

“Please, My.” Sherlock whimpers when his brother’s hot mouth closes around a nipple, sucking with a scrape of teeth, while his other hand plays idly with his other nub. The last thing he plans to do is run. “Make me scream.”

His brother gently guides him to lay flat on his belly, before shoving a plush pillow beneath his pelvis. Sherlock trembles when he hears the snick of the lubricant bottle, and then a calming hand rests upon the curve of his buttocks. 

“I’ve got you, Lock. Relax.” Mycroft presses feather-light kisses across each globe. “It’s just me.” 

Fuck. Sherlock jerks when Mycroft licks a broad stripe with his tongue along his anal cleft, brushing directly against that tightly furled orifice. Fingers spread his arse cheeks apart, and he hisses with pleasure when a lubricated digit toys with his rim. Then there’s the slightest of pressure against his hole, and Sherlock fists the quilt with both his hands when the finger breaches the tight ring of his hole and he hisses – the sensation both alien and slightly uncomfortable – trying to fight the urge to clench down around the invader. 

“Too much?” Mycroft inquires, giving Sherlock the time to adjust.

“No, just.. strange.” Sherlock says quietly. “Proceed.” He wiggles his arse, impaling himself further. “I know my safewords.” 

“I know you do.” _But using them when you need to is another matter._

The digit worms its way deeper into his anus. Sherlock sighs when a second digit joins the first – stretching him slightly; it’s not like he’s never had fingers up there before, Sherlock had experimented with his own digits, imagining (wanking to) the fantasy of his brother fucking him over the years. It had never been enough. The sub in him had craved it so badly at times – needing his Dom to fill him in all the ways that mattered. To claim him. And it had hurt every time Mycroft had rejected his request. And then all coherent thought leaves him when something hot and wet licks against the periphery of his hole. God. Tongue. He squirms as his naughty Dominant proceeds to eat him out. 

“Come to me, brother.” Mycroft says after Sherlock is sure he had almost passed out due to this new pleasurable delight. 

“Must you still be clothed?” Sherlock asks, his fingers instantly at his brother’s suit – divesting the garments. Normally, he wouldn’t be like this – letting Mycroft dictate the proceedings, but this isn’t an everyday event. Nor is this a proper scene. 

His brother doesn’t tell him off or threaten him with punishment, giving him an indulgent and fond smile. “As you like, Lock.” 

Sherlock lets his hand run through his Dominant (no, Master’s) abundantly furred chest. A ripple of fondness courses through his chest, knowing that he is in more danger of getting spoiled as Mycroft’s sub than anything really. 

He wonders if Mycroft is going to be more strict about certain things after this – but he wouldn’t mind. Things like orgasmal control, chastity, the way he dresses – etc. Would his brother adorn him with jewelry? Sherlock already plans to wear his collar and/or wristlet at all times. Would he have to perform acts of service? A rather domestic image of him serving his brother his favourite tea or coffee in the morning comes to mind – and something warm and fuzzy fills his chest. His Dom would reward him with a kiss. Or him saving his busy brother a trip to the loo by drinking his piss as Mycroft works at his desk. Would Mycroft make him give up his flatshare with John? It seemed likely. If he had been out publicly as an uncollared sub, it is a scandal to share a flat with a Dom he isn’t bonded or related to. Plus, his brother is not fond of his flatmate whatsoever. But – he would get to live with Mycroft and that was indeed something to look forward to. 

“Ready?” Mycroft kisses him again, and Sherlock can only nod when they reluctantly break apart. “Do you want anything else, Lock?” His brother gestures to the toys.

“You are my Master now, Mycroft – you decide.” 

As much as he enjoys the indulgent side of his brother, Sherlock needs something else. 

His brother smiles. Looking feral as he does so. His irises darken, as his voice deepens accompanied by a dangerous amount of silk that sends shivers down Sherlock’s spine. “I am. Aren’t I? Say it, Lock.”

“Master.” Sherlock says reverently, as he had dreamed. “Do as you will.”

He watches as Mycroft/Master scoots over to the formidable mahogany headboard, bringing the box of toys and the towel with him while freeing himself from his trousers and boxers. His brother arranges the pillows to support his own back, before patting his bare thigh, and Sherlock immediately goes to him. An anticipation that he has never felt before during their scenes thrums through him. 

This is his handsome Master of his very own. A very Dominant man in all facets of his life, although Sherlock knows now that Mycroft had always saved his softer side for him. At some point unknown to Sherlock throughout the years, his brother had given up his dalliances with other subs, even though their own business-like arrangement had never changed. He finds himself briefly wondering what Mycroft had been like to the others – before shaking his head – it’s not worth thinking about. It would only lead to unnecessary jealousy. 

“Stop.” His brother orders abruptly. “You are thinking too much. This is unacceptable.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but he shuts it immediately. It’s not his place to do so now. Master did not give him permission to speak. 

“Good boy.” Master gestures to his lap again where his generous cock is already hard and flushed. The smallest drop of precum (ambrosia) forms at the tip and Sherlock longs to lick at it. All of Master’s penile secretions rightfully belong to him. 

God. How much he fucking wants. 

Sherlock crawls his way to Master. Mycroft guides him, allowing Sherlock to straddle his thighs and he sighs when Master’s prick brushes tantalizingly against his intergluteal cleft. It’s hard to keep still, as he wants to capture the tip of Master’s glans into his hole. 

“So good for me, pet.” Mycroft croons, picking up a pair of clamps that made suspicious bell-like sounds. He smirks at the mix of horror and arousal on Sherlock’s face. 

Gods. Sometimes Sherlock really despises the humiliation kink that he has. The damned bells. He watches Mycroft adjust the pressure of the clamps, before testing it on himself. Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft finally attaches them to his own hard tits – trying to keep still to prevent them from jingling – which is a futile task in itself. And he gasps when his brother lets the bells go – pulling so amazingly at his nubs. 

“They were the only weighted clamps I could find. I know how much you love them.” Master says innocently, daring Sherlock to say a word.

Sherlock cannot help but snort at this obvious lie, and his brother pinches his thigh – causing him to yelp. Which in turn causes the abominable bells to swing and ring, tugging relentlessly at his poor aching tits. 

Mycroft only chuckles with amusement. “Come on, dear one – spread your cheeks and sit on your Master’s cock. Go on then.” 

Nerves flutter within him as he does what he is told, using a hand to spread his arse – exposing his hole. Master places his hand on Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock closes his eyes when he feels the spongy glans touch his perianal region. 

“Open your eyes, love.” Mycroft orders softly – and Sherlock does.

He gasps when he finally lowers himself onto the prick, feeling the glans stretch him. Good god. Master is massive. It distracts him from the ringing of the bells. Ever so slowly, the cock slides into him further and Mycroft’s hand gently caresses Sherlock’s face. Soon their lips are meeting while Mycroft’s hand slides into his curls. His brother kisses to conquer – using his tongue to tease his lips before plunging inward – capturing Sherlock’s own tongue in a sensual dance. Sherlock is absolutely lost in sensation – both pain and pleasure and soon he is feeling Mycroft gently thrust within him, rocking in and out at a steady tempo. The wavering burning agony of his weighted clamps tugging at his abused nubs adding a complementary counterpoint, seeming to multiply the intensity of well – everything. It feels so damned good – better than all his lonely wank fantasies – and what made everything better is his brother’s tender touch – the affection that openly radiates from his face. 

“Is this what you had imagined?” Mycroft asks when the need for air had forced them apart.

Sherlock shakes his head. He says quietly. “It was missing something. I didn’t dare think… that you would ever collar me. Ever –”

“Love you?” Mycroft gently envelops Sherlock with his arms, carefully holding him as he continues to fuck in and out of him. “Oh, Lock… how could I not?”

The angle of his brother’s thrusts changes slightly and oh-my-god it strokes his prostate just right, wrenching an unintelligible noise from him. Mycroft is relentless, continuing his thrusts – rubbing Sherlock so perfectly that all coherent thought is beginning to leave his brain. Even the infernal ringing of the bells have faded into the background. He clings onto his brother tightly for dear life, minimally aware that his nails are digging deep into Master’s flesh. He can feel his balls tighten as he inches closer and closer to climax, and his cock – weeping and so-fucking-painfully-erect – is trapped between their bodies. 

And then – he feels his Master tug at his clamps – and he almost blacks out in sensation when Mycroft pulls the devices off in quick succession – and soon he is cumming – ejaculating spurt after spurt – experiencing perhaps one of the most intense orgasms he had ever had. He is quivering all over as Mycroft continues to fuck into his overstimulated hole, chasing for his own completion – and soon Master empties his balls into him, forcing his hot seed go deep within him. 

Sherlock slumps uselessly against Mycroft, feeling rather like he’d been fucked utterly stupid. His brother’s fingers rub at his aching tits, coaxing little whimpers out of him. Master’s softening cock slips out of him, and it leaves him bereft. 

Sensing this, Mycroft brings him closer to maximize skin-to-skin contact, kissing Sherlock’s forehead as he does so. 

“You will live with me, Lock.” Mycroft says after many minutes of post-coital bliss have elapsed.

Sherlock only nods. God. He feels so sluggish, but so happy. 

“You can keep your flat and blogger for your cases.” 

“Mycroft. Not the time.”

Mycroft laughs fondly, letting his fingers comb through Sherlock’s mess of curls. Sherlock can feel his brother’s contentment and he permits his brother to pet and care for him – as his brother usually does after a scene. 

Aftercare. It had always been Sherlock’s favourite part until his feelings had changed – it was when Mycroft would be at his most affectionate. His brother would cuddle with him, bathe him (although at the beginning Sherlock had been really embarrassed at having his brother do this for him) – and basically do whatever that needed to be tended to. Injuries. Dehydration. Nourishment. Reassurance. In the last year or so, it had only reminded Sherlock what he couldn’t have from his brother – and Sherlock had often gone home – trying to keep all his emotions in check. Hiding his pain from his brother. Usually he times these scenes so that John would be out when he comes back in the case he needs time to himself. To rebuild his Dominant disguise. 

“You cried when you went home after the last few times we had met.” Mycroft had been following his thoughts. Then he sighs – looking absolutely disappointed in himself. “How could I have not known?”

“Evidently you haven’t bugged the flat enough.” Sherlock murmurs dryly – feeling rather embarrassed that Mycroft had sussed out this particular fact. And then he adds. “You take delight in my tears…”

“Not like this, Lock. Never like this. Not at the cost of your well-being. You can tell me anything, you know that – brother mine.”

“I know that now.” Sherlock turns to look in awe at the tie wrapped around his wrist. 

“We have to talk about these things, you know – Lock. Our relationship won’t magically be perfect just because you have my collar.” 

Sherlock nods again. “I know, Mycroft. I am sorry I didn’t tell you. But I was scared you would leave me to fend for myself.” 

“Never.” Mycroft kisses his curls. “You ready to face the real world again, Lock?”

* * *

* * *

John is still trying to process the ridiculous scene that he had just witnessed. 

The equerry chap had brought him to a more private room to wait for the brothers to sort out their issues. At one moment, Sherlock had been doing typical Sherlockian things – being an utter brat and embarrassing his brother in front of the ‘heart of the British nation’, and the next, sprawled over his brother’s thighs, absolutely starkers, with his thighs spread apart – leaving nothing to the imagination – in one of John’s own personal favourite spanking positions. How beautifully he takes his brother’s punishment! Although, clearly it hadn’t been one. It was certainly a memory worth revisiting. Sherlock’s generous bum reddening under his brother’s skilled technique. 

Damn. Who would have known? His flatmate is a sub. And – Mycroft is his – 

The door to the room opens revealing the equerry. 

Following behind are Sherlock and Mycroft; the former having finally put on his trousers, shirt and shoes, and the latter has his arm slung around his little brother’s waist in an unmistakably possessive manner. 

Sherlock looks… happy. John notices. He couldn’t possibly miss all the little adoring glances Sherlock throws Mycroft’s way. Like Mycroft is the only person that matters. So different from the contempt and annoyance that Sherlock usually directs at his brother. 

John only wishes that he could have a sub who looked at him like that. 

And, where is Mycroft’s tie? He almost gasps in shock when he sees the flash of yellow encircling Sherlock’s wrist. 

A collaring. 

Mycroft catches Sherlock glancing at him, and John is absolutely flummoxed when Mycroft gently grabs one of Sherlock’s hands – stopping his progression into the room – and stoops down a little to chastely kiss Sherlock’s lips. 

It is surprisingly sweet. When they part, Sherlock beams at Mycroft – looking like someone that John had never met before. But that’s a true observation. He’s never seen this part of Sherlock. The real Sherlock who had hid himself behind the mask of a Dominant. And, he finds himself lamenting that he will never get to – as this facet of Sherlock would clearly only be for his Dom. 

His Master. 

John will only be at most – a spectator.

He’s heard of stories of subs living as Doms due to the social advantages, but they all eventually get outed, one way or the other. Either willingly or their instincts to submit are too strong for them to suppress. And he has a feeling that for Sherlock, it was a little bit of Column A and a little bit of Column B. It’s clear to him that his flatmate has been living a lie for too long – and things had reached a breaking point.

Mycroft sits down on the couch opposite of where John is sitting. Sherlock doesn’t sit, but immediately opts to kneel at Mycroft’s feet, letting his head rest against his Dom’s inner thigh. Fingers immediately caress Sherlock’s hair, and John is startled to hear his flatmate hum in contentment. 

John takes a moment to admire the graceful lines of Sherlock’s back. It is clear that Mycroft has his brother trained well in the arts of submission just by seeing how Sherlock assumes the positions. Just as Sherlock’s attention seems to be directed completely at his brother – Mycroft’s is completely riveted to his sub. There is no ‘Iceman’ or ‘minor government official’ here. 

Neither spare him a glance until the equerry sits down on the couch after having served lunch on the elegant coffee table – eager to proceed with the latest scandal that needs to be hushed up for the greater good of Great Britain. 


End file.
